The moment she was accosted Marge wondered why she ever thought a trip to Vegas would be fun. She should have gone to the Dells. Larry and she could have stopped at the water park, like they always did, then shopped for cheese. They might even have taken a boat ride.
Now the man snarled in her ear. “You’ve got something that belongs to me.”
Funny how your mind works, she thought. Here she was on the Vegas Strip, a gun poking her ribs, and she was thinking about the Dells.
The man jabbed the gun in her side. “You hear me?”
“The box?”
“I want it back.” His voice was raspy, as if he’d smoked too many cigarettes.
“You can have it.”
He positioned himself behind her so she couldn’t see his face, but she thought the pressure on her ribs might have eased. “Smart move, lady. So where do I find it?”
“In our room.”
“Good.” The voice croaked in her ear. “You just keep nice and quiet, see, and no one’ll get hurt.”
As he hustled her down the strip, the greasy smell of fries and burgers from a fast food joint made her stomach grumble. She realized she hadn’t eaten since lunch.
“And tell your husband to stop takin’ things that don’t belong to him.”
She nodded, swallowing her hunger. This could still work out. If she could somehow flag down the policemen at the cruiser, she’d say the box belonged to this goon. Which, according to him, it did. So let him take the rap. She and Larry would be in the clear. Then they could start over. Together. She nodded again. Dr. Phil would approve.
Larry tried to look nonchalant as he strolled down the Strip, but his armpits were damp and sticky, and sweat crawled on his neck. He checked out each passer-by, but most of their faces said they had more important things to do than notice a man in a yellow shirt.
He bought a beer at a dimly lit place off the strip. Two customers were hunched over the bar: a black man with a “THEY DO IT BETTER IN VEGAS” T-shirt and a woman with frizzy gray hair. Larry considered approaching the guy and tried to remember some rap. Home guys? Homies? He changed his mind when the man glared at him in the mirror.
Back on the Strip, the crowd was thick and boisterous. Larryelbowed his way into a resort with cobblestone streets and quaint cafes. Supposed to be a mock-up of Paris, he remembered. Wandering past a “French” bakery whose warm scented bread set his mouth watering, he spotted a scruffy-looking man on a bench. The guy’s knee jerked up and down, but he didn’t make eye contact with anyone. He shook out a cigarette from a crumpled pack. Touching a match to it, he sucked down a drag. Took his time waving out the match.
Larry walked over. The man threw him a surly glance and scuttled farther down the bench. His movement waved the scent of patchouli oil through the air. Larry remembered patchouli oil. A three-day fling in college with a hippie who never said much more than “far out” and “dig it.” She’d had a perpetual buzz, and she reeked of the stuff.
He took a swig of his beer. Maybe this guy was the one. Then again, if he was wrong, it could all go south. He remembered how much he’d lost at the casino. He thought about the box and how much it was worth. He wiped a hand across his mouth and sat down.
“I have some stuff I need to move.” He muttered. “Think you could help?”
The guy didn’t move. Or even look over. Larry wondered whether he’d made a mistake. Two cops were leaning against their cruiser half a block away. Too close for comfort. He resisted the urge to slap his thighs. He stole a look at the guy. No response. Rows of slats pressed against his shoulder blades. He was about to bolt, melt into the crowd, when the guy gave him a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
Larry’s pulse started to race. It was working! “You-you want in?”
“What’s the deal?” the man said.
Larry threw his arm over the back of the bench. The guy’s lips were pencil thin, and his upper lip didn’t move when he spoke. In fact, Larry wasn’t sure he’d spoken at all until he repeated it.
“What’s the deal?”
Larry told him.
“Where is it?”
“In my hotel room.”
“Hotel? What the hell is it doing in a-”
Larry cut him off, surprised at how brazen he felt. “It’s a long story. And I don’t have all day. Yes or no?”
Silence. Both of them stared at a trashcan, one of those fancy, shiny ones that reflected lights from the hotel marquee. The man on the bench ran a hand over his head. Twice. “You’re on.”
The elevator doors opened, and Marge and her assailant made their way down the hall, the barrel of the gun still prodding her ribs. As they skirted a housekeeping cart outside her door, Marge remembered the maid with the towels. Was she in the room now? If she was, maybe there was some signal Marge could send her, something that would tell the woman to get help. Thinking furiously, Marge swiped her card key and pushed through the door.
To her surprise, the lights in the room were on, and a reedy voice called out from the bathroom. “So what are you waiting for? Check the cabinets.”
Seconds later, the maid stomped out of the bathroom. When she caught sight of the man with the gun, she threw her hands in the air.
“Santa Madre de Dios!”
A noise came from the bathroom. “Estella… what the-”
Fear knifed through Marge. “Who’s there?” She shouted anxiously. “Get out of my bathroom!”
Silence.
Marge glanced at her attacker, seeing him for the first time. He had thick dark hair, matted and bushy, jeans, denim shirt, and skin so bad it made bubble wrap look smooth. Why didn’t he do something? But he just stood there, confusion stamped on his face. She’d have to save herself. But how? She frowned and arched her back, hoping to slip through his hold, but his grip was too strong. Then the bathroom door slowly opened, and the desk clerk with stringy hair and too many earrings emerged.
“You!” Marge planted her hands on her hips, her fear turning to anger. “Why are you here? Where is my husband?”
The maid unleashed a stream of rapid-fire Spanish, followed by a flood of tears.
The concierge fingered an earring, not at all perturbed. “The guest in the room below complained of a leak in their bathroomceiling,” he said over the maid’s wails. “We were just checking it out.” Flashing a look at the man with the gun, he added, “See? Nothing to worry about. So now, if you’ll-”
The man with the gun suddenly seemed to snap out of a trance and pointed the gun at the desk clerk. “Stay where you are,” he barked. “Not another step.”
The desk clerk shot him a strange look. Almost as if they knew each other, Marge thought. She crossed her arms. “Where’s my husband?”
“No one was here when we came in.”
Marge fixed him with an icy stare. He looked defiant, but he could be telling the truth. At least about Larry. But then, where was her husband? And where was the box?
Her assailant waved the gun at the maid. “Stop bawling, woman. And get out of here.” He turned to the desk clerk. “You too. And you ain’t seen nothing. Or no one. If you know what’s good for you. Got it?”
“Wait!” Marge yelled. “You can’t do-”
Her attacker waved the gun at her. “You… up against the wall.”
“But what about-”
“Shut up.” He turned back to the desk clerk. “You got a problem with your hearing?”
Marge saw the look they exchanged. “Do you know each other?”
The two men didn’t answer. She frowned. The sobbing maid was her last hope. She turned to her, trying to telegraph an SOS, but the desk clerk grabbed the maid’s arm and shoved her out into the hall. As the door slammed, Marge heard him ream her out in Spanish.